


quand les corvidés chassent

by bokutoma



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Hell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-13 12:52:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18032102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bokutoma/pseuds/bokutoma
Summary: "They say that Midasdied a ruined man-you can't eat gold,gold can't keep you warm.But that's justallegory, and anywaytimes havechanged. Give methat touch.I'll takemy chances."





	1. prologue

It was nearly impossible to be silent in over a dozen layers of skirts and petticoats.

Mostly, but not quite.

Most bards though that silent was the same as quiet, and, for the most part, they were right. Still, as long as one sounded like something that was already supposed to be there, no one would hear them coming.

Thankfully, Marcelline wasn't like most bards.

The moon was swollen, silent, complacent overhead, and she had swapped the delicate heels she had been wearing at the marquise's soirée for soft-soled boots. The only sound she made came from the rustle of her dress, one that had been out of fashion for a year, but she had managed to convince Babette de Launcet that it was next season's greatest fashion.

It was important that she be seen with a de Launcet, the  _right_ de Launcet, tonight. There were enough people out there who suspected her of being  _Le Corbeau,_ and tonight was the night one of them had to die.

Babette was an idiot, and would be singing her praises long after she had no further need of her.

Antoine de Launcet was a floor below the shingles Marcelline now perched on. For twenty nights, she had watched him, parsing out a routine from the man's seemingly erratic behaviors. He would be having tea now; she had managed to subtly sabotage every effort he had made to bring someone home to his bed, and would be hiring a whore instead. The tea was a pointless attempt at sophistication where none lay.

Still, a few well-placed rumors whispered in the right ears, and she had managed to plant an associate to linger, give her more time to commit the crime and escape before the woman "discovered" what had been done.

Only the de Launcets would truly care about what had happened, and Babette, darling of one of the most powerful branches and spoiled brat, would dissuade all initial suspicions, at least until her memory faded.

It would be long enough to divert attention elsewhere.

Antoine had fixed his roof not too long ago, and the shingles were sturdy enough that she worried very little about slipping as she eased her way down to the edge.

Below, all was still; this was not the docks, where men would barter flesh and coin for all manners of goods, nor was it the districts of the people, where drunks crowded together on street corners and whores beckoned with siren songs of skin.

Marcelline understood why the common man would never thieve well from the rich, and would do an even poorer job assassinating, but  _this,_ this empty bliss, it was everything she liked about her job.

It wasn't much work to lower herself to the railings of his ostentatious balcony, wide as it was, and she was able to stand quite comfortably as she adjusted herself to peer inside his window.

Vain bastard that he was (a trait all Orlesians seemed to share, and she was no exception), he was at his mirror, considering various shirts to change into. Dressing up for a whore was laughable, but rumors did fly, and she supposed she could understand the desire to impress everyone.

Her skirts rustled as she slid through the glass doors into Antoine's rooms, but she only moved when the wind was high, and he did not falter in his preening until she slipped behind him, one hand over his mouth, the other holding a dagger against his throat.

"Periwinkle is  _not_ your color,  _ma cherie,_ " she purred into the shell of his ear as he quaked in fear, the obsidian glass of her mask framing equally dark and mischievous eyes. "Crimson suits you much better."

With that, she slashed his neck, and though blood spurted rampantly, she dropped his body to the ground, and none marred the elegant silk of her dress.

Job done, she slipped back through the balcony doors and out into the night.


	2. indésirables admirateur // lignée

"Lady Marcelline! Lady Marcelline!"

Hearing one's name shouted from halfway across the marketplace was almost never a pleasant experience. Marcelline sighed and slowed her pace, careful to keep the parts of her face visible below the newly fashionable half-mask from betraying her irritation.

"Lady Marcelline!" The boy calling her name was dressed in pale colors, quite out of fashion for the season, and she barely suppressed a sigh of pity.

"Yes?" she prodded, her voice carefully cool and composed.

"Lady Marcelline, do you not recognize me?"

Truthfully, she only had the time and energy to commit  _important_ people to memory. Needless to say, this boy did not number among them.

"I am afraid that I am most scatterbrained today," she said instead. "Do not take it to heart. If you had caught me yesterday, before this business with poor Baron de Launcet, I would have known you from your voice alone."

The boy flushed and nodded rapidly, and it took everything in her to turn the curl of her lips from a patronizing smirk to a genteel smile. "Of course, your ladyship. A thousand pardons. Lady de Launcet is requesting your company, however, for an informal wake."

His name came to her then, and irritation coiled in her gut. "Forgive me for not immediately remembering you, dear Phillipe. I have just been so distraught...Oh, I should meet Babette right away, the poor girl."

Phillipe de Launcet, nephew of both Guillaume and the late Antoine, a foolish boy who wouldn't have amounted to much even had he been from an influential family. Gaspard de Chalons's patronage, the most sought after in society, would not even have been enough to save him from becoming a stepping stone to greatness. She would pity him if this were not a problem of his own making.

She curtsied quickly, hardly even worth the name for the lack of respect it showed for a member of the peerage, and made to sweep away. Before she could, though, Phillipe coughed awkwardly, a charming enough move, she supposed, if done by a country boy. From an Orlesian noble, though, it was tacky and gauche.

She almost liked it.

"Lady Marcelline, I gather that this is hardly the time, but...are you free the week after next? I...wish to call upon you."

She did not say anything for a long moment. He had never been so forward; her silence would have him backtracking in mere seconds.

Sure enough, he did.

"My mother has not seen you in so long. She complains dreadfully." His laugh was strained and awkward. "Besides, I think you would be quite the comfort to her, given all that has happened."

"It is  _horrible,_ " she agreed, though she averted her eyes to hide the gleam in them. "I am afraid I cannot think of much else. Please don't think too lowly of me, but I could not bear to have tea with your darling mother when such a tragedy has occurred. Her kindness would send me into hysterics."

Phillipe looked crestfallen, and if she had not bartered her soul to the Grand Game years ago, she might have felt a shred of sympathy.

This, however, was not that world. With a quick goodbye, she whirled around, skirts aflutter, and slipped into the crowds of Val Royeaux.

* * *

The Vicomte and Vicomtess du Rand were neither particularly wealthy nor well-connected; once upon a time, the family had been full of dukes and duchesses, but all that had changed early in the Blessed Age. The du Rands had not been fully in support of Ferelden occupation, considering that they dealt heavily with dog lord merchants, and for their trouble, they had lost all but their pettiest titles.

Marcelline du Rand, however, had ambitions.

She did not need to be a duchess - as of now she didn't even technically hold a title at all, and wouldn't until her parents passed - but she craved the respect more than anything.

That, of course, was the inspiration behind  _Le Corbeau._

A bard was sly, clever, and most importantly, fashionable when she had been attending finishing school. It had started as a joke, somewhat, and she would hire herself only to friends, though they did not know it to be her.

Then, of course, someone had asked her to kill.

Not in so many words, of course. A clever bard could get far more money exposing an assassination plot than carrying one out. Still,  _persuasion_ had been asked for, and it was clearly not meant to be of the verbal kind.

It hadn't been as hard as she had expected, killing someone, even when the other bard's mask had been lifted and the face of her classmate had stared back at her. No, it had been quite easy, and the money she had received only helped that feeling blossom.

So as she now dressed herself black as the night and wore false sympathy like a second skin, she could not suppress a secret grin.

Val Royeaux would not escape from the talons of  _Le Corbeau_ unscathed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twitter: @deracinatin

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @deracinatin
> 
> tumblr: @chellick // @bokutoma


End file.
